


Statement of J. S. Whinnsmoore regarding his upcoming death.

by litra



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Case Fic, Death, Gen, Mild Language, Soldiers, Statement Fic, The End, War, executions, mostly set in season 1, references to early season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-17 02:16:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21258572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/litra/pseuds/litra
Summary: I dream myself in front of a firing squad.
Kudos: 7





	Statement of J. S. Whinnsmoore regarding his upcoming death.

Statement of J. S. Whinnsmoore regarding his upcoming death. 

Original statement given August 29th 1946. 

Recorded April 17th, 2016.

Audio recording by Johnathan Sims. Head Archivist of the Magnus institute, London. 

Statement begins.

I dream myself in front of a firing squad. It's the realest thing. As real as you and me sitting here. I can see it. I can smell the water in the air, the coming rain, the oil of the guns, and the mold in the wall behind me. It's an old wall, practically falling down, but better an old wall then one of the trucks right? Wouldn't want to damage a truck. 

I'm wearing my same ill-fitting uniform that I've somehow gotten used to. That feeling of grime on your skin like you haven't showered in a few days. That little bit of a chill that makes the hairs on my arms rise up in goosebumps. I keep running my tongue over the end of the unlit cigarette they stuck between my lips. It's all I can taste now. I don't even smoke, not really. I always trade away my share of the ones we get. I'd rather have one of those peppermints, but everyone knows you get a last cigarette not a last peppermint.

I keep leaning back, just enough to touch my shoulders to that wall. The wood starts to give under my weight and only then do I remember to stand up straight. I wonder if my blood, splattered on those boards will kill whatever it is, or if the mold and rot will take those bits of me and grow.

I once heard that's how fairy circles are made. There's actually a dead thing in the middle of those mushrooms. Don't know if it's true. Maybe one day there'll be a silhouette on this wall like a man standing, waiting for his death. 

I shift on my feet. The mud under my heels sticks to my boots, and the constant squelch that I don't even really hear anymore. Not like it wants to pull me in or anything. Like it too is waiting. Not quite proper soup, it needs the rain for that, the rain and whatever I can give it. The ground will get a lot more of my blood than the wall. It's a lot more eager for it too, and I shift again, trying to stay where I was put. 

It'd be easier if my hands were free. I know it's harder to keep your balance with your hands behind you. Everyone learns that at some point right? But it's not the kind of thing I've ever thought about. Never paid any attention to it. The rope is around my wrists now though, and there's nothing for it. 

I could probably get free if I tried. The rope's old enough and the kid that tied those knots had hands that were shaking worse than mine ever did. He made sure it was tight enough, the old scratchy rope biting into my skin, but the knots themselves, even behind my back I can tell they're for shit.

Not like I can run away. That's how it's done though isn't it? Ropes and blindfold. Wouldn't want the poor sap to see death coming. It would help if the blindfold wasn't as old as the ropes. 

At least that's saved me from falling over. A better blindfold and my balance really would be shot. I wouldn't be able to see the firing line or the sky behind them. It's hazy through the cloth, but enough. It helps with the waiting too. I think I'd be scared shitless if I had to keep listening to those quiet murmurs and not know when the bullets were coming. Like this, I can't tell who's who, but I can tell their weapons aren't aimed. 

Some final bit of bureaucracy giving me an extra minute or two as the SO talks to whoever's on the end of the line. They're not angry at least, I'd be able to hear that much, or maybe they're just being quiet like the rest of the line. I can hear every cough and grunt, and all the sounds of the camp on the other side of the hill, but god forbid anyone actually say anything. You'd think we'd all be used to staring off death by now, but maybe there's something different when you're over there. I wouldn't know. 

I lean back against the wall again, my curled fingers brush the wood. If I get splinters I wont have to worry about them for long. The wood is warmer than it should be, or maybe my hands have just gone numb.

It's that moment, that little irritation that make me miss it; everyone coming to attention. Then the XOs voice rises and I try to straighten like everyone else, reflex. Except my balance is still screwed so I nearly go over. That's when the real adrenaline hits; when my heart starts pounding in my chest and I can feel the blood in my veins. My hands cramp up, actually painful now, pressing against the rope like I'm trying to snap it. I'm not. Not consciously at least. It's an old rope but it holds.

The cigarette drops from my lips. That's how I realize I'm panting, not like a dog, but like there's a run or a fight. Like there's anything my body, my reflexes can do against nine bullets. Nine, because one of those guns is supposed to be empty. That's what I heard at least. One empty gun so the men in the line can pretend they didn't fire the killing shot. Don't know if it's true. The way the sarge was looking at me it might just be ten bullets after all, no matter what regs say.

The guns come up. Maybe I'm a coward. Maybe I should have just closed my eyes. All I can really see thought that old sash is dark shapes and blue gray-sky anyway. I tilt my head up to the storm as I hear the order.

How do you describe pain to someone who's never experienced it? A bullet isn't like breaking a bone or taking a punch. And nine of them? I could tell you that my ears were ringing, and I definitely got splinters as I slid down that old wall, giving my due to the wood and the mud. I'll spare you the rest of it. The pain isn't the point. 

See here's the real point.

When I was lining there warming the mud with the last of my life a man from the line came over to make sure the task was done. I felt his fingers on my neck, damp and clammy, then he pulled back the blindfold to close my eyes, and I got a good look at him for all of three seconds or so. Not sure if I'm even really alive at that point or if it's just the way your mind works in dreams, but that face...

That's the real reason I pulled you aside and wanted to talk. 

See about four months ago a man came up to me, bought me a drink and told me a story. I'd never seen him before and never saw him again. Until yesterday. It was as bad as he said. My hand on the fuse, and him there, all red meat and the life fading from his eyes. A bullet isn't the best way to go, but it's better than having your guts all over the ground. I think whatever this is, it's coming up fast now, so I wanted you to know. 

Your gun wont be empty on that day. I don't blame you for it. There's a greater force pushing pieces around, and you're just as much a pawn as me. And when the dreams start to come, well, it's better not to fight it.

Statement ends.

Followup for this statement has proved fruitless. J. S. Whinnsmoore has proved impossible to track down. There are no less then seven J. Whinnsmoores who served in World War 2 for various British forces, and that is disregarding the fact that he may be of a different nationality. Add to that the lack of rank or any other identifiable details, and we might as well be shooting in the dark. 

Then there's the fact that we do not know who took the statement. It was misfiled which I should be used to by now, and while Gertrude signed off on the file, the rest of the documentation is in a different hand, an assistant no doubt. 

Given the nature and scale of trauma suffered during the war I do not hesitate to call this some form of mental break. Surely when someone sees death so often imagining their own is almost common place.

This is a regretful story but not a supernatural one.

Further notes added January 27th 2019.

Related To: The Ending 

Related to: Death Dreams

Related to: Oliver Banks 

Notes on loose leaf added to file:

Banks you ass, was this you? Why did you wake me up?


End file.
